


the picture can hardly be improved

by mellyflori



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Art appreciation, Gen, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 16:05:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1863903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tendons on his left arm are standing out as he clutches at the corners of the small hotel towel riding low on his hips.  The towel is putting up a valiant struggle against gravity.  It is losing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the picture can hardly be improved

**Author's Note:**

> Two things:  
> 1) This is breathtaken's fault as she came in to my ask-box taunting me with "aramis with wet hair and barefoot fresh from the shower."
> 
> 2) In my head (and hers) this happens on a business trip taken in the world of Une Histoire de Bleu by the gorgeous ceeturnalia. She also acted as a much needed comma wrangler. One wonders how I got so many punctuation errors into such a small piece. It's a gift.

There’s no call for it, really. There is absolutely no reason he should have that slightly shocked look on his face, scrubbing his palm over the back of his neck as he says, “What?”

Aramis is standing in the hotel suite's living room, in the light of the enormous windows. Lazy drops of water are hitting his shoulders, dripping from his hair and running down over his collar bones. The bits of his hair he rubbed dry before coming out of the bathroom are beginning to curl over his forehead and around his ears. 

The tendons on his left arm are standing out as he clutches at the corners of the small hotel towel riding low on his hips. The towel is putting up a valiant struggle against gravity. It is losing. When he turns to look into the kitchen again the dimples on his lower back deepen.

Where his feet, ropey and strong, are touching the floor there are tiny puddles forming. Water is still clinging to a few of the crisp hairs on his legs but the rest is sliding down the backs of his calves, painting over his ankles.

Porthos and d’Artagnan are standing in the suite's kitchenette, their breakfasts and coffee forgotten. Porthos’s toast is about to burn black. Athos has the paper curled in his hands. He’d dropped it slightly when Aramis had come into the room but now it is clenched in his fists, tearing slightly through an op-ed piece about the welfare state on one side and the crossword puzzle on the other.

“I said, have you seen my contacts case? It’s not on my nightstand and it’s not in the bathroom.”

Porthos blinks. “Have you checked under the couch?”

“What in god’s name would my contact lenses be doing under the couch?”

Athos sighs, weary, no hint that he sees where Porthos is going with this. “I have long since stopped trying to guess why any of your personal belongings end up where they do.” He snaps the paper back in to shape and resumes his reading.

With a huff Aramis stomps over to the sofa and bends to run his fingers under the front edge. The towel rides up in the back, dragging over the backs of his thighs and hinting at the crease where his legs meet his ass.

In the kitchen, smoke begins to wisp out of the toaster and d’Artagnan clutches at Porthos’s arm. Athos leans around the side of the paper, not missing a second of the show from behind or the brief flash when Aramis straightens and readjusts the towel in the front. He sighs at them, frustrated. “I can’t tell you how helpful you’ve all been. I’ll just go check the nightstand again, shall I?”

They all watch him stalk back into one of the bedrooms, trailing water behind him.

Athos is the first to speak. “Porthos, where are they?”

“Fucked if I know.”

“They’re in his toiletry bag,” d’Artagnan says. “He left them on the coffee table and I put them in there this morning so he wouldn’t forget them.”

Athos nods. “How very good of you. Porthos, please douse your toast.”

Porthos grins, tossing it into the sink. “Getting a suite was a _brilliant_ idea."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Billy Collins's "The Moment"


End file.
